Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Sonnet #122

We will not speak to strangers about the dead

We will not abandon the bodies of the dead
We will not permit the dead to bury the dead
Flowers bloom, cut short and browning on the dead
tombs and cemetaries, the grass is mown for the dead
That grass may never set seed to die above the dead
An eternity of grass, cemetery lily centuries for the dead
In gardens where the living ones whisper to the dead
And bring gifts to those beyond all gifts: the dead
will never taste your charities, they are the dead
And all gifts brought are for the living, not the dead
Bodies transform into a new way of not being the dead
But unlock the living cells that devour cells opened to the dead;
the resurrection is just so very small, there is no death, no dead

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